


*Domestic, my dear Watson

by OneMoreStory



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 21:56:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4322223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneMoreStory/pseuds/OneMoreStory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock." John whispered, because, suddenly, he did not trust his voice any louder, "Who shot you?" Missing scene from His Last Vow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	*Domestic, my dear Watson

A finger tapped lightly on John Watson's shoulder and he whipped around.

"Where the  _hell_  have you been, Sherlock, everyone's been looking for you."

"Not where they've been searching, obviously. Come along, John."

The detective turned and slipped back into the shadows of the narrow alley way in which he'd concealed himself. John followed, tailing his friend through the alley's twists and turns, stumbling slightly as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

"So, ah, Bridge Street. Don't tell me Mrs. Hudson was actually right about you hiding in the Big Ben."

"No, but I once let it slip deliberately to distract her and I was about ninety percent sure she actually bought it. To answer your implied question, I also knew that you would be the only one to take her seriously enough to even think of scaling England's biggest monumental clock in search of me, so I waited for you here, the only intersection you must pass en route from Baker Street."

" _You_  waited for  _me_."

"I just said that." John nearly walked into Sherlock when the taller man stopped abruptly at the end of a turn. "You should know by now that  _I_  find  _you -_  when I wish to talk to you."

A pause.

John drew a breath -

"You know what about, John. You have it in your pocket right now, I can see it's unnecessarily garish curved outline."

Slowly, John pulled out the crescent-shaped glass bottle. "Claire-de-la-Lune.You left it there for me to find. What are you trying to say?"

His light tone of voice was deceptive, of course.

Sherlock merely begun to walk again.

"Sherlock-"

"Not now, John, I've a limited supply of energy and pain receptor-inhibiting medication left. If you trust me, come with me." He paused, then added, "Remember my - my vow. At your wedding. I intend to stand by it."

The sickening suspicion that had been creeping in John eased, just slightly.Then he registered with a stab of concern that for the past few minutes he had been able to easily keep up with the detective, when normally he had to half-jog to follow the long legs striding ahead.

They emerged into the orange wash of street lamps, and Sherlock lifted an arm rather awkwardly - hailing a cab.

"You need the hospital." John muttered, though he knew it was useless.

"Still good for another ten minutes or so." Sherlock lifted a coat lapel, revealing the bag of clear liquid in the inside pocket, then gestured for John to get into the cab pulling up behind them.

***

"Where to?"

"Leinster Gardens."

The cabbie's eyes were briefly visible in the rear view mirror.

"You alright, mate? You look like you need the h-"

"Really-I-hadn't-noticed-shut-up-will-you-and-drive." 

***

"Sherlock, was that a projector you were fiddling with outside?"

"Just a bit of sign-posting; also, insurance against what is already fairly unlikely, though undesirable enough to warrant extra precautions."

"Sherlock," said John, positioning himself in front of his friend, "this isn't a game this time."

"Do I look like I'm enjoying it?" 

Indeed, the detective's face was particularly grim and pale, though that was more likely due to the rapidly dropping morphine concentration in his blood stream.

John swallowed.

"Sherlock." he whispered, because, suddenly, he did not trust his voice any louder, "Who shot you?"

Sherlock was, uncharacteristically, briefly silent.

"Are you sure you saw - whoever you think you saw. You might have been - mistaken." His voice didn't quite choke on the impossibility of the last word.

"Let's put it this way. I'm confident enough with the conclusions I have drawn to know that I'm not risking your physical safety doing this."

"Doing what?"

In response, Sherlock Holmes pushed his friend down into the chair behind him, hung the bag of morphine over him, then, drawing back slightly and narrowing his eyes critically, briskly jerked up John's jacket lapels and ran a hand the wrong way through John's hair before the doctor could protest.

Giving a slight nod of satisfaction, he turned and walked - really alarmingly slowly, John's scrambled brain tried to point out - to the other end of the hall, switching off lights as he did so, and pulling out a cell phone.

"Keep a cool head, John," he threw over his shoulder, "Remember, how you handle the first one is critical for future relationship health and stability."

John stared.

"First what?"*

Then -

"What book have you been reading?"


End file.
